The Logical Potter
by Aixyutin
Summary: You are too quick to assume. Some little boys with be little boys. Other little boys will be something else entirely. When Harry Potter returns to the wizarding world after ten years, the wizarding world is forced to remember that destiny, defiance, and desperation make for a potent mix. Here, there is no little boy to be found. AU Slytherin! Harry with an aim at realism.
1. Prologue

**Author's Notes:** Yet another awfully ambitious project. The Prologue serves mostly as an introduction to what makes my Harry Potter different. Oh, the joys of fanfiction. Consider this blatantly AU, and maybe also a blatantly realistic.

For those who like context. the original prompt:

_We all know the story of Harry Potter as a cliché, scandalously moralistic Light Expelliarmus-happy jock. So let's give it a couple of twists and find out how Harry Potter would be like if he were a theory-happy geek. I'm even more sorely tempted to say Dark but you know, all geeks know that Dark is really just an excuse for Light to be even more bratty and jock-like than ever._

* * *

**The Logical Potter**

**Prologue**

* * *

It was cold. The four year old boy shivered and burrowed deep into his thin twice-patched blanket. He was wearing all four pairs of his socks, each with a unique hole on a different toe, and both of his oversized sweaters.

In all his memories, winters were always uncomfortable, but tonight was particularly bad. The little boy's teeth chattered. When he raised his stiff fingers to his dry lips, they burnt against his hot breath. He squirmed, rolled in his cot, and tried not to scratch himself against the rough cupboard wall.

The little boy could not sleep the whole night. And perhaps it was just as well that he did not, because sleep on a cold, cold night was dangerous even in a pretty suburban street like Privet Drive.

* * *

The bacon hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle. Oil and grease sparkled against the heat, and then splattered up onto the five year old boy's exposed arm.

The little boy hissed and dropped the pan.

"Boy!" came his aunt's shrill voice. He was shoved aside. The boy stumbled, barely caught himself.

"No breakfast for you!"

The boy dumbly nodded even as he cradled his arm to his chest, where welts had already begun to appear. His eyes were burning somewhat, but by the time he tip-toed for the iodine and bandages in the medicine cabinet, his eyes were dry.

From then on, even in the hottest of summer days when the kitchen was a veritable furnace, the boy remembered to keep his sleeves rolled down.

* * *

"So that's Dudley's cousin? He does look awfully weird doesn't he?"

The six year old boy squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shrink even further into the shadow of the school pillar. It was lunch time, which meant Dudley was probably still eating, which meant Harry-hunting probably hadn't started yet.

The boy gripped his lumpy sandwich—hastily made, he had spent more time than usual packing Dudley's lunchbox—and tried to inch toward the library. Dudley didn't like to the library usually, and even if he did, he usually behaved in front of the hawk-eyed librarians.

School wasn't too bad. He was in a different class from Dudley, and although the rest of the kids tended to avoid him, and the teachers always seemed to frown at him and his clothes, it wasn't _bad_.

"There he is!"

The boy ran.

* * *

"I don't know how you do it. Even if it's out of the goodness of your heart, I don't see how you can stand such a sullen child all the time!"

The seven year old tried to skitter away from Aunt Marge's sharp gaze. She only dragged him back.

"Stand straight young man—we can't have you slouching like some good for nothing!"

The boy barely flinched as Aunt Marge's meaty hands cuffed his shoulder.

"Well, don't feel too bad if he doesn't turn out right, Petunia. You can only do so much, and with his blood—trash breeds trash, I tell you. By the way, Boy, go get me some tea. It's the least you can do, useless as you are."

* * *

Although Dudley usually left his cupboard alone, just in case, the eight year old boy kept his most prized possessions hidden in a loose plank underneath his cot. Today, he reverently peeled back the plank to add a new treasure.

Outside, a party was in full swing. The Dursleys had decided to host a Christmas party, ostensibly to generate neighborhood cheer, but really it was an excuse to show off their new marble bathrooms. The boy liked the new bathrooms. They were easier to clean, and fingermarks didn't show was easily against the new faucets.

Even as the song and smell of Christmas carols and gingerbread floated through the thin cupboard door, the boy could not stop marveling over the toy in his hands. It was a small video game console, with already-creaky buttons and stains where orange juice had been spilled.

Dudley wouldn't notice it, not with his new presents.

With shining eyes, the little boy gently turned on the toy and settled back for a few hours of catching Pokemon by the light of single lightbulb and the glowing yellow filtering from underneath the cupboard door.

Somewhere, Uncle Vernon gave a booming laugh. Despite himself, the boy flinched.

* * *

"Ma'am, he needs glasses."

"Oh surely he was only sleepy the day of the eye exam—"

Aunt Petunia's shrill voice grew shriller as her fixed smile threatened to carve itself permanently into her face. Behind her, a nine year old boy watched the exchange with unblinking eyes. In the end they left the store with the cheapest pair of glasses Aunt Petunia could get by without the doctor looking at her too disapprovingly.

"You better not break them, boy, because god knows I'm not buying you new ones—"

The boy was silent. He was too busy staring at the world with wide eyes. It had been so long since the things had looked so clear. He could even read the traffic signs now.

"Boy, stop gawking and get moving!"

And so the boy moved.

* * *

He was hungry.

The ten year old boy curled into a ball and tried not to fidget too much on his cot. He let his eyes glaze over as he stared out into the darkness, where he could just dimly make out the few scraps of paper he had taped to wall. The one closest to him was yellowing at the edges, but he could still make out the red loops where a teacher had hastily scrawled "Good job".

He hadn't meant to set the trash on fire. In fact, he wasn't even sure he did it. He didn't know how he did it, if indeed it was his fault. All he remembered was scrambling to make dinner in time, and then Aunt Petunia was howling at him to take out the trash, and he really didn't have time—

Well, it didn't matter. Fact was, he was here, without dinner, and all he could hope was that they remembered to unlock the door come morning.

A spider crawled over his arm. He shook it off gently, and then winced. Uncle Vernon's grip had been vice-like, and he hadn't so much as shoved the boy into the cupboard so much as threw. His shoulder still hurt. It'll probably hurt for a while. Chores would be difficult. He'll also have to wear long-sleeves for a while, or else the teachers would talk; after all, boys weren't supposed to come to school with bruises.

The boy shook his head and continued to stare resignedly into the darkness.

* * *

When the eleven year old boy saw the letter, heavy in that expensive paper way, addressed so suitably and impossibly accurately to "the Cupboard under the Stairs", he immediately slid the envelope under his shirt. He delivered the rest of the mail in the same quiet, surreptitious manner as always, and if he was a little bit more tense than usual, the Dursleys certainly didn't notice.

The boy disappeared into his closet. He kept the door open just a crack, so he could see the Dursleys coming in advance should they unexpectedly decide to check on him, and then turned toward the heavy envelope.

He cracked it open. Squinted at the loopy handwriting in deep green ink.

The boy's hands began to shake. Surely—no. It was a cruel joke, a most cruel joke. Almost too inventive for Dudley, but who else would know about the cupboard?

Harry James Potter violently tore the letter in two. This, more than anything—this he would get even for, even if he had to wait his entire life to do it.

* * *

Harry could not stop staring at the pig's tail. It was a very small tail, and even with the roaring fire, he had to squint to see it. But sure enough, there was a tail wiggling on Dudley's big bottom, which was hidden behind Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's cowering forms.

Besides the gigantic man—Hagrid was it?—only Harry stood tall and straight in the creaky shack.  
He looked down at his feet, still cold and clammy, and then back up at his relatives again. He wiggled his toes, scratched them against the rough floor. Pain kept things real.

"Harry?" ventured the gigantic man.

"I could do that?"

The man blinked, and then looked at his umbrella somewhat sheepishly. "Oh well, y'know, some day, once you have lessons and a real wand and all—"

"But one day? I can?" Harry pressed.

"Well, I don't see why not, but you must know 'arry, wizards don't usually go around cursing Muggles, 'gainst the law and all that, Ministry wudn't fancy that—"

Harry's eyes shone. "Take me," he demanded, managed to say.

Hagrid looked a little taken aback by the little boy—and he really was very little, even at eleven—but he seemed to understand. With a few more jolly comments, and a wave of his pink umbrella, they were off.

By the time Harry Potter stepped into the wizarding world's doorstep of a Leaky Cauldron, he stepped quietly, surreptitiously, and watchfully, as he had done his entire life. Only his eyes, green, attentive, and bright, betrayed any difference. Because for once in his life, Harry Potter was not the "dumb-charity-good-for-nothing". No, for the first time, Harry had something; was something. What it was, Harry wasn't quite sure of. Self-respect, perhaps. Purpose, definitely. Hope, most of all.

Still, nothing could prepare him for the following.

"My god-is that _Harry Potter_?"

* * *

Once upon a time, Harry would have killed for a kind word. And for many years, he almost did. For many years, he almost killed himself painting white picket fences on too-hot summer days, wrapping Dudley's presents with a perfection that would make a shopkeeper cry, wiping Aunt Petunia's vanity mirror until even her smallest pores looked monstrous, all for a look, a touch that wasn't a cuff or a slap.

But that was a long time ago. Now-

"Yer quite the shy one, aren't ya Harry?" Hagrid said.

Harry only scrunched up his shoulders and pushed down his bangs further, until they drooped past his scar and all the way into his eyes.

The Leaky Cauldron had been, in a word, terrible. As disconcerting as the words and attention had been, it was the hands that were the worst. The hands that tugged at his sleeves, reached out to touch his hair, his _face_-

Someone paused a moment too long to look at him. Harry did not walk into Ollivander's. He dove, leaving a bemused Hagrid behind.

The door tinkled just as Harry inhaled a lungful of musty oldness. He shuffled his feet as he stared at the dimly lit shelves. If he hadn't been watching so intently he would have jumped when Mr. Ollivander appeared seemingly out of thin air.

"Ah, if it isn't Harry Potter? I was expecting you." The man leaped from his cascading ladder with a nimbleness that belied his wrinkles. "Your parents' wands-"

Harry tried to remember, tried to understand, he really did, but it didn't mean anything to him that his father's wand was mahogany, pliable, eleven inches. But he remembered it all the same, because as vague as the words, they were his parents and that meant _something_.

"Well, let's get right to it then. Extend your dominant arm, if you please—"

* * *

"You're _Harry_ _Potter_?"

After the Leaky Cauldron fiasco, Harry took it in stride, or at least, as calmly as an eleven year old boy with both a rather natural and externally forced introversion could possibly do so. He nodded.

"Can I see the scar?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. The redheaded boy was leaning far too forward in his seat, hands perched on knees, eyes wide, mouth open. He looked like a goldfish, and Harry was no zoo exhibit for goldfishes.

"No," Harry curtly said, hand already drifting up to carefully mat his dark hair over his forehead.

The boy looked disappointed. Harry instinctively inwardly cringed and then had to remind himself to keep his chin up. He wasn't that kind of Harry anymore, the kind that shielded at every word and glance.

Still, eleven years of conditioning weren't going to disappear overnight.

"Anything from the trolley, dears?"

* * *

The hall was tall and endless in its floating candle and night sky panorama. Harry would stare at it more, if he weren't so conscious of the rest of the school looking on. By now, most of the other firsties had stopped gawking and were instead whispering, shoving each other, staring at the tall imposing woman holding a suspiciously old pointed hat.

Harry had a hard time controlling his wonder and bemusement as the Sorting Hat sang—a talking hat, of all things—but when the firsties began to called up to the stool, one by one, the foci of the entire hall, Harry felt an old familiar cold fear sink into his stomach. His fingers twitched. It felt even worse than the times when he had been cornered by Dudley and his gang.

"Harry Potter."

It took everything in him to keep his face smooth as the students around him burst into whispers. Harry's lips felt like twitching and his cheeks felt tight. There were too many eyes watching him.

Professor Mcgonagall gave him a little smile but still, it was almost a relief when the Sorting Hat sunk over his small head and sank him in darkness.

"A bright mind—a desperate mind."

Minutes ticked by. It was nothing like Draco Malfoy, who had barely let the old thing touch his blond coiffed hair.

"Plenty of bravery and will; you had to have it, to withstand this long. Quite a bit of pride, although deeply hidden. As for loyalty—hm, to people or principles, I wonder—what is it that you want, young Harry? Infinite knowledge?"

For sure, Harry wanted to know, everything and anything—

"No, yours is not a pursuit knowledge for knowledge's sake. You are grounded in earthlier things. But I don't sense the raw need for unity, for self-sacrifice—"

Self-sacrifice?

"No, Hufflepuff would not be the place for you, although remember, theirs is a house that is too often underestimated. As I was saying though; Gryffindor perhaps? You have will and a streak of stubbornness—"

Harry tried to remember the insignia of a roaring lion against scarlet red.

"But is justice what really drives you?"

Justice? The world had never been kind to him.

"Don't be so quick to judge; you'll surprise yourself. But, let's see. Slytherin—"

'Every witch and wizard who's gone bad went to Slytherin' hissed Hagrid's voice, overlaid with Ron Weasley's vehement tones.

"—Again, are you judging something off someone's words?"

Harry's mind skittered to a halt.

_'Oh, is that Dudley's cousin? Weird, isn't he?'_

"Slytherin would make you great," the Hat purred.

Great? Harry bit on his lips, hard. He had always been Harry the charity case, Harry the useless, Harry the-

"Yes, indeed. Greatness, glory—power, if you so wish it._"_

__Harry never wanted to be weak again.

"The self-preservation instinct of a serpent indeed." The Hat paused and then gave a low, wheezy chuckle that echoed through Harry's head. "And so the cycle begins again, I suppose."

The Hat finally opened his mouth. Although Harry would never know, never had the Hogwart Hall bated their breath so closely, so tightly, so eagerly. Even Dumbledore leaned conspicuously forward in his seat, eyes bright—

"Slytherin!"


	2. Chapter One

**The Logical Potter**  
**Chapter One**

* * *

For one long moment, the hall was quiet.

And then the far left table roared.

"Potter, Potter, Potter!"

The Ravenclaws were the first to begin clapping. The Hufflepuffs soon followed enthusiastically, if not a bit pensively. The Gryffindors were the last to join in, and although most managed to fix magnanimous smiles on their face, not a few continued to sit in dumb disbelief.

Up on the staffs's table, Professor Severus Snape remembered that he was in full view of the school. He clicked his jaw shut violently and narrowed his eyes. He needn't had bothered though; no one was watching him, not him, the greasy Potions Professor.

"Come now, I am sure young Mr. Potter would be a credit to your house."

No one, that was, except Sprout.

"Excuse me?" Snape said through clenched teeth, turning to glare at the Head of the Hufflepuffs. As always, Professor Pomona Sprout cheerily smiled back, utterly unfazed by the scowl on her colleague's face.

"Pomona is right," Professor Flitwick chimed in. The tiny man was balancing rather precariously on the edge of his seat in an effort to make eye contact with Snape. "Never mind the… unusual circumstances. His parents were both very talented wizards and witches; I don't see why young Harry won't be the same. Although, it has been generations since a Potter was last Sorted into Slytherin." Flitwick hummed. "Interesting…"

Quirrell, the stuttering fool, was oddly quiet.

Snape glanced down. Although he couldn't see Professor Mcgonagall's face, he was sure she was, at the very least, surprised.

"Minerva will be bit disappointed, I'm sure."

Dumbledore had followed Snape's gaze. The old wizard stroked his beard and tilted his head. "After all, she always had a soft spot for James and Lily… but as unexpected as this is, perhaps it's best this way." Dumbledore turned his twinkling blue eyes at the younger professor. "I'm sure you'll welcome young Harry as well as you would any other young Slytherin."

There was a warning there, somewhere.

"Looks like the House Cup will be in Slytherin hands for quite some time again," Hooch commented.

Even Sprout blinked at that. As the rest of the faculty swiveled their heads toward her, Hooch sniffed.

"Surely I can't be the only one to remember that James Potter was a most fantastic flyer during his time here in Hogwarts?"

"Oh, I had almost forgotten!" Sprout squealed. "He did cut a most dashing figure on a broom, didn't he—"

Snape rolled his eyes and decided now would be a good time to growl into his pumpkin juice. As he raised the goblet to his mouth however, he kept his eyes fixed on the small, almost mockingly unremarkable profile currently stumbling his way down the Slytherin table. The boy would have gotten to his seat faster were it not for the hands that kept tapping his shoulder, or outright grabbing his arms, as each and every Slytherin expressed their congratulations. Such boldness, if not outright rudeness, was a bit uncharacteristic for his House, but Snape wasn't surprised. It was, after all, the Boy-Who-Lived.

A Slytherin Boy-Who-Lived.

Merlin's beard. Snape resisted the urge to smash his face into the table.

* * *

They were cheering his name. Shaking his hand. Slapping his shoulder, as if he'd done something _right_.

"Good to have you, Potter!"

"And they say we Slytherins are all Dark–"

"Goodness, wait until this gets out–"

"Potter!"

"Potter!"

"Potter!"

"Here, Harry!"

Harry walked dazedly toward the end of the table, where most of the Slytherin firsties had gathered. The blond boy—Draco was it?—gestured to the seat across from him.

Harry glanced around just once, and then sat.

"Pardon the plebeians," Draco sniffed. "Oh, and your collar is a little skewed; pull it to the left a bit."

"Sod off, Draco. You're just jealous they're cheering louder," said the boy sitting to Draco's right.

Draco glared and then tossed his head. "Harry, this is Theodore Nott, and this is Pansy Parkinson. To your right is Millicent Bulstrode, and next to her is Daphne Greengrass—"

Theo was the stocky, light-brown-haired boy with sharp blue eyes who sat to Draco's right, while Pansy turned out to be the girl on Draco's left, a rather short girl with a sharp nose and a sharper blunt black bob. Millicent was a large girl with flat straw hair and a pug nose, while what little Harry could see of Daphne—Millicent really was rather large—seemed to be pony-tailed red-head with maybe hazel eyes; Harry wasn't too sure.

"And to your left is Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe," Draco finished imperiously. The two big boys nodded. Harry tried his best not to shrink away from their bulk. They reminded him of Dudley.

"So, Harry, I'm glad to see you ultimately picked the right House," Draco sniffed. He sounded like Aunt Petunia did when she was talked about having the 'right' lampshade.

'_Slytherin will make you great._'

Did that mean Harry had, indeed, made the 'right' choice? And what did the Hat mean about 'the cycle beginning again'?

Harry looked away from Draco's piercing blue gaze. Some of the Slytherins were still staring at him and whispering, but most had politely turned toward to the center aisle, where the last firstie was being Sorted.

"Harry?"

Harry noticed that although a few slouched rather artfully, most of the Slytherins sat with impeccable posture, shoulders back, hands curled almost too-casually next to chins, in the nooks of robed elbows, or in laps. Rings and earrings sparkled, and while Harry didn't have to look to far to see ruffled hair or not too shaved chins at the tables of the other Houses, almost every Slytherin was clean shaven and coiffed-like Draco actually. And here Harry had thought Draco with his oiled blond hair was an odd one.

"Harry?"

You could, as Vernon would say, _smell the_ money. These were the kind of people that Aunt Petunia and Vernon would always simper at, the very same people who would barely look at Harry, and if they did, it was a cursory slippery glance that lingered just long enough for Harry to see the pity in their gaze.

Harry felt his stomach clench.

'_Slytherin will make you great._'

And yet, these very same people _cheered_ when Harry came.

"Harry!"

Harry jumped. "What?"

It was Pansy. "Harry—I can call you that, right?—where have you been all these years?" shee loudly asked. Some of the second years blatantly turned to listen while the third years, sitting a little further down, frowned at their rudeness.

Harry had been afraid of this question. "With relatives," he replied a little tersely.

"Who?" Draco demanded.

Harry was saved from answering by the sudden roar. The last boy had been Sorted into Slytherin.

"Is that Zabini?" Pansy asked, her lips curling in a not too attractive manner.

"He is a pureblood," Nott noted, almost too casually. "His mother was a Ravenclaw."

"God knows what his father was," Draco muttered.

The boy in question sauntered down the aisle, nodding politely to the other congratulating Slytherins, before finally stopping near the end of the table.

"'Lo, Malfoy," he raised a hand flippantly.

Blaise Zabini was a skinny olive skinned boy, tall for his age, with curly dark brown hair and lazy cat gray eyes. Like most of the other Slytherin firsties, he wore his Hogwarts robe impeccably, although he looped his tie rather loosely and left his collar unbuttoned.

Harry watched Theo and Pansy exchange a glance, and then both simultaneously look at Draco, who narrowed his eyes. Blaise looked unperturbed, and continued to stand, hands in pockets, refusing to take any of the other open seats. By now, the other Houses were turning to look as they all waited for the last firstie to be seated. Harry almost had to admire the boy's utter shamelessness.

"Vincent, Greg, move," Draco finally snapped.

Crabbe and Goyle moved. A few second years squealed indignantly as they were rudely shoved, but a cutting looking from Pansy and Draco shut them up swiftly. Blaise dropped gracefully into the open seat, ignoring the look Pansy threw at him, and stretched his hand out toward Harry.

"Blaise Zabini," he said as an old man with an impressive beard rose at the staff's table to give a speech.

Harry carefully accepted the offered hand. "Harry Potter," he said, one eye on the taller boy, the other on Headmaster Dumbledore.

_Most powerful wizard in the world, y'know…_

"Of course," Blaise replied breezily.

Harry blinked, but Blaise didn't seem to have anything more to say.

"—And remember, the third corridor is off limits. Now without further ado—"

Harry almost jumped when the gleaming gold platters became suddenly laden with food. Draco and Theo seemed not to notice, but Harry felt Blaise and Millicent, who must have felt Harry jolt against the shared bench, both spare him a long sideways glance.

"Are those croquettes?" Pansy squealed. "I _love_ croquettes, don't you, Harry?"

Theo rolled his eyes. Harry, caught quite off guard, shrugged. In his private opinion, any and all food he could get his hands on was good. The Dursleys hadn't allowed him to be picky, not like Dudley.

"So, Harry," Draco said as he helped himself to ham (although not before inspecting it critically first), "You didn't answer the question."

Harry forced himself to swallow. He had been enjoying the broccoli well enough, although it was surprisingly hard to eat in robes. The long expansive sleeves threatened to knock over every plate and goblet in Harry's vicinity every time he moved. Even as he tried to consciously move slower, Harry didn't fail to notice how easily, almost unthinkingly, every other Slytherin firstie deftly maneuvered their own voluminous robes around the table.

"What question?" Harry mumbled.

"Who and where have you been living with all these years? You wouldn't believe the things they were writing in the papers—"

"Like, I said, with relatives."

"But who exactly?" Pansy chimed in.

Harry took a long, slow slip of pumpkin juice.

"Well?" she demanded. She leaned forward so far that if she had long hair, it would definitely be swimming in the gravy. Theo gave up all pretense of eating and lowered his forks and knife, his face attentive.

"Woman, stop hogging the mash potatoes," Blaise drawled.

Pansy whipped her head around and snarled. "I am not!"

"Well from the way you're practically been lying on them, I could have been fooled otherwise." Blaise pointedly shoved Pansy's shoulder as he reached around to grab the spoon, simultaneously almost brushing her chest.

She jumped back with a squeak. "Pervert!"

"Hm?" Blaise said innocently.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Daphne bite back a giggle.

"Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. The apple doesn't fall very far from the tree does it? Although, in this case, I guess we should also be asking from which tree does the apple fall—" Pansy said nastily. For reasons that Harry could not fathom, Blaise perceptibly tensed, while the rest of the Slytherin firsties either smirked or looked away. Clearly, there was some ongoing joke.

"With your looks, Pansy, I'm sure no one has any doubt where you came from," Blaise replied with a strained, but sharp smile.

"What does that mean?" Pansy slammed her hand on the table.

"Keep your hands to yourself, woman, I'm not that desperate."

"You—you—!" Pansy swept her gaze around, searching for help. Harry carefully busied himself with a second, long sip of pumpkin juice. Millicent giggled, although she stopped when Pansy threw her a scathing look.

"To return to the original question," Draco interrupted, "Where were you living anyway, Harry?"

Why wouldn't they let it go? Couldn't they tell that Harry didn't want to talk about it?

Harry shrugged. "Around."

Draco frowned. "So you were traveling on the Continent?"

Harry hadn't even left Britain before. The Dursleys weren't of the habit of taking their charity case along when they went on tropical vacations.

"Oi, Nott—so how are the Tutshill Tornadoes doing?" Blaise asked.

Theo reluctantly tore his gaze away from Harry. "Fine, although the Magpies are giving them a bit of a hard time. Not too surprising, but I heard rumors they're about to sack their Seeker—"

"Seriously?" Draco turned his head at that. "Campbell is the best Seeker the Magpies have had since Murray from the '40s."

"I heard it's a matter of purse—"

"Did anyone hear that the Bats are now first in the league?" Pansy tried to chime in.

The boys ignored her. Harry quietly bit into his drumstick and tried to focus on how tasty it was. Did they add garlic in it? Harry always wanted to add the herb, but Aunt Petunia hadn't liked how her breath smelled afterwards.

"Isn't the food so greasy?" Pansy said in disgust. She toyed with her food.

Harry had a feeling she hadn't gone hungry once in her life.

* * *

"Bloomslang," the prefect ordered.

The entrance to the Slytherin dorms was a portrait of an elegant, black snake wound around an apple tree. At the password, the portrait swung obediently open without a word—or at least, so most Slytherins thought.

'_Welcome, little snakes_,' Harry heard the snake sigh as they passed into the Common Room.

The Slytherin Common Room was a high-ceiling grand affair with spiral staircases and tall windows. Although warm yellow light shone liberally enough, the green and silver decor casted a somber glaze over the entire room. Harry could not help but notice that half of the windows looked oddly blue.

"—As you can see, due to their location near the dungeons, the Slytherin dorms are partially covered by the lake. Occasionally, you'll see the Giant Squid and other creatures pass by the windows—"

Some of the upperclassmen headed straight to the dorms. Most however, settled into one of the couches placed liberally about, and spoke quietly. Although they turned their heads, Harry could _feel_ them watching as the Firsties bobbed their heads obediently to the prefect's words.

"Passwords would be updated every fortnight and placed on the headboard. Dorms are assigned for the year, no changes unless you have an absolutely good reason—"

Harry, small as he was, thought he was fairly well-hidden standing in between Crabbe and Draco, but then he saw a girl Slytherin look at him and turn her face in that unmistakable shaking shoulder way–she was laughing at him. Harry dug his fingers into his palm as his arms, luckily hidden under these expansive sleeves, broke out in goosebumps.

"Just a few rules before I let you go—"

The prefect responsible for the Firsties this year was Gemma Farley, a pretty if not a bit hard-looking girl with an easy grin and an easier smirk. She seemed to be on good terms with Marcus Flint, and had tossed insults back and forth with the intimidating Quidditch captain on their way down to the dungeons. There was something threatening about the way she twirled her wand lazily, and all the Firsties pointedly did not meet her eyes, except for Draco, who stared haughtily back.

"One, don't air your dirty laundry for the world to see. Slytherins stand united, at least in public. Any spats, you figure them out in here, you hear me?" Again, another lazy wand twirl. "Two, don't lose points. We'll win the House Cup so long as you brats refrain from excessive stupidity. Three, you are more than welcome to reach out to me if you have issues, but they better be substantial than 'oh, I miss my Kneazle, whatever should I do'." Farley grinned. "I bite."

Draco yawned. "Are we done?"

Farley narrowed her eyes, and then to Harry's surprise, visibly bit back a retort. She ended up only flapping her hand and saying, "Disperse."

Huh. Harry didn't have to turn his head very far to see Draco's smirk widen.

No sooner had the prefect dismissed them, some of the upper years stood and began to drift toward the Firsties.

"So if it isn't the Boy-Who-Lived," said a skinny, brown-haired boy with awkwardly long arms and acne.

"Pucey," Draco inclined his head.

"Malfoy." Pucey nodded and then turned back toward Harry. "I'm Adrian Pucey. Pleasure to have you aboard. Can't say I'm not surprised to see you here though."

There was a beat where everyone seemed to wait for Harry to respond, but Harry only shrugged.

"See you around then," Pucey said before drifting back toward his couch, where most of the Quidditch team—Draco had taken care to point them out to Harry during dinner—seemed to be sitting. The largest boy—Marcus Flint, supplied a helpful Draco-sounding whisper in Harry's head—met Harry's inquisitive gaze with a raised eyebrow but didn't move from his seat.

It didn't take long for Harry to notice how everyone seemed to know each other. Theo was talking about Quidditch with a few third year boys, while Blaise, amazingly enough, already had his finger twirled around a giggling second year's hair. Only a few of the Slytherin Firsties—and Harry had noticed off the bat that they had been pointedly avoided by Theo and Blaise—hung back, although they too exchanged a few greetings here and there with a few of the older Slytherins hovering a few meters back.

"It's been a while, Draco."

It was the girl who had been laughing at Harry earlier. She was tall, at least a fifth year, with rather plain looking features except for her glinting dark blue eyes.

"Hello, Emily. Harry, this is Emily Travers. Emily, Harry Potter."

Emily smiled. She did not extend her hand. "You're a lot smaller than I thought the Boy-Who-Lived would be."

Someone gasped. Draco looked frozen. The Common Room went quiet. Even Daphne Greengrass, who had been chattering rather enthusiastically just a moment ago about hair dyes, was silent.

Harry swallowed. No one stepped in to help him. Instead, they all watched, even as the silence stretched painfully thin. So, in some ways, Hogwarts wasn't so different from Little Surrey after all.

They were expecting an answer. Harry didn't have one, or at least a very good one. And so he did what Aunt Petunia did whenever anyone made a comment about Dudley's weight.

Harry turned toward Draco. "I'm thirsty," he said as steadily, and blandly, as he could.

Draco stared at him. Harry willed his face to stay blank even as his hands began to shake from underneath his long sleeves. Just when Harry thought he couldn't hold it any longer, Draco blinked.

"I'm sure there's water in the dorm rooms," Draco managed, his voice just slightly shaky. "We should go; it is getting late after all."

"Don't ignore me!" Emily snarled. She had never been pretty, and now she was uglier than any girl Harry had ever seen. Truthfully, it scared Harry a bit. But if there was something Harry-Hunting had taught him, showing fear was like dangling a bone in front of a starved dog. So Harry shrugged and turned his back on Emily Travers.

In retrospect, it probably wasn't the best idea.

"Potter!"

"_Diffindo_."

Harry began to turn his head in Blaise's direction and then felt something warm and red sizzle angrily past his ear.

* * *

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